Disclaimer: Supernatural belongs to Erik Cripke. This story originally belongs to VivianaStellata from Wattpad, I merely translated it from Czech with her permission in order to deliver her beautiful writing to wider audiences. Praise will be translated back and delivered to the original author, unless you want to roast me specifically for using the language wrongly, which you are of course welcome to do.
Sharp fragrance of pine needles roasting in the sun. The air was shimmering with heat; clear sky, dead calm, cicadas and mosquitoes constantly competing with each other to provide the hypothetical audience with the most annoying accompaniment.
A forlorn man was climbing the rocky slope over behind overseeing Butte, a small town in Montana.
He didn´t look like a hiking freak. He was definitely missing all the modern amenities of the contemporary nature types, like mountaineering boots, knee-high socks coupled with cargo shorts, thermal underwear, a frame backpack with one thousand and one pockets, a tent that can be packed into one of those pockets, not to mention wristbands, trekking poles and other contraptions.
He was holding a smartphone on which he was trying to find the route. There was a few days old stubble on his face – far from the trendy full beard. He wore a simple t-shirt, jeans, a flannel shirt, a gun at his waist and a bag over his shoulder,
As if he just stepped out of the car.
Which is exactly what he did, albeit an hour ago.
And he was beginning to really regret that.
He swatted away the mosquito that was just about to hold a booze-up in the middle of his forehead. He swore nastily.
This entire operation was so hopeless from start it was ridiculous. Not to mention the chance of succeeding, which looked as infinitesimal as the prospect of those damn mosquitoes leaving him alone for at least a minute.
Except Dean Winchester has long crossed the line of ordinary despair somewhere into murkier waters reeking of madness.
Just under a week. A week was all it took for him to give a chance to a blatantly obvious hoax.
On the peak of Mount Haystack near Butte, Montana lives a saint man, a hermit with a hotline to God himself.
Dean in his sane disposition would smirk over the article at most. It wasn´t even worth cracking a joke over.
Dean steamrolled by a heavy-duty truck with LOSS inscribed on its license plate, this Dean started to seriously consider it.
And finally, while Sam dedicated all of his energy to his attempts to "´tame´ the thing he kept obstinately calling Jack and refused to try and dispose of it, Dean in an already semi-delirious state took off to search for God.
And now I´m here.
In friggin´ hot, blood-sucking, biting and stinging nature.
He tried to load the satellite map on his phone once more, hoping to notice some hut, a shed, or anything that could show him the direction. The address ´peak of Mount Haystack, Butte, Montana´ was more than unspecific.
Damn hermits!
Damn Chuck!
I intend to yell at God, so it probably shouldn´t be easy, but still...
Come the hell on, I´m on a friggin´ hill, why is there no signal here?
The thought of stagnating connection was the last conscious thought he managed. Right then, his legs slipped on the dirt and was sliding somewhere down in thunder of falling rocks, faster and faster.
Down?
But he was just walking going up the hillside, there was no... chasm?
A fleeting realization – Mount Haystack is interlaced with old mining shafts, like a block of cheese filled with holes – but too late, this train wasn´t going to stop and there was no jumping out mid-ride.
Dean could only protect his head with his hands and hope that the rest of his body will somehow handle the horrible blows. He could distinctly hear the telltale cracking of his own bones even through the rumble of the fall – he was colliding with rocks for what felt like eternity and he still didn´t hit the bottom.
An ugly snap; like a grenade exploding in his side. He fell onto the ground, limp, a rag doll stuffed with pain. The cold-hearted mountain was still raining rocks on him.
It flashed through his mind that he´s going to throw up – he helplessly turned his head to the side, unable of anything more than that, but before his stomach could really disgorge, one of the falling stones crashed exactly on his temple.
Like flipping off a switch.
"Be reasonable," Sam´s voice sounded horribly exhausted, "he´s gone, Dean."
He didn´t even have it in him to retort, only shook his head.
"We have to... dammit, I´m so... I´m so sorry, but we need to bury the body. It´s been three days."
"No," his voice finally returned. He sounded hoarse and weak. "No," he tried again, more resolute, better. "We will continue to work with that monstrosity. He´ll come back. He always did."
"Dean, we already tried almost everything," Sam glanced at the door behind which they kept Lucifer´s offspring locked up. Well, kept locked up... "We´re running out of options and I feel that despite everything we did, Jack is here only because he himself wants to be here for some reason."
"Jack," Dean muttered disgustedly.
He heard his own voice as if coming from a distance, even hoarser in reality than in memory. His mouth was bitter and parched, probably caused by that name. Jack. His tongue was adhered to the palate, lips sticking together.
And he couldn´t open his eyes.
"Son of a bitch!"
Instinctively, he first tried to move his right hand, but it was trapped under the boulders. And judging from the pain that flared up, it was also probably crushed to mush.
He let out a groan and ran his left hand over his face. His hands slid over a crust of caked blood.
So that´s what it was.
He didn´t go blind. Awesome.
While his body continued to wake up from the soothing unconsciousness and let itself be known with tormenting pain, he scratched off the worst of the blood from his eyelids and looked into the thickening darkness. Black, gray, rocks, dirt and somewhere above in unreachable attitude was a small splotch of nightfall sky peeking through the hole he created with his fall.
"Shit," he whispered.
He didn´t even check the extent of his injuries yet, but he felt that something is horrendously wrong, even taking his smashed right hand into account.
Not that it mattered anyway. He wouldn´t have a snowball´s chance in hell of climbing up to the patch of sky even in his peak condition.
He breathed in, the inside of his chest rattled and he had to overcome a wave of nausea which tried to yank him back into the ocean of unconsciousness. He forced himself to systematically account for damages.
His right hand was a write-off, although he could extricate it from the pile of rocks with some effort. Which he will do right after... after... just later.
The wound on his temple looked bad, but it was just bleeding badly, the skull under was intact.
Broken ribs, that almost didn´t even count by now.
Except...
The real trouble started below.
A shaking hand reached an iron bar, perhaps some age-long bracing, tarnished, rusty, and now also sticky. He didn´t see in the almost complete darkness – the night was coming quickly – but he knew that the stickiness is his own blood. The iron went through his side; he was left pinned down like a beetle in a display cabinet.
To try and pull it out would be madness.
Only if I wanted to get this over with faster, he thought and snickered bitterly.
Now he had to return to the worst part. The one he put off until now.
The legs, pelvis and generally the half of the body below the waist. The half that wasn´t screaming in pain as if it was being processed by a combine harvester. The half he couldn´t feel at all.
Maybe my legs are broken like crayons in a kindergarten.
Maybe there´s another friggin´ heap of friggin´ rocks stacked on them.
Neither matters because this means my spine is screwed. So...
This is most likely the end of the line.
Most likely? Try definitely.
He literally felt himself growing cold. His body was losing the fight against severe shock.
He scrabbled around with his healthy hand; the mind slowly sinking into unconsciousness came up with the thought of a phone.
He didn´t manage to come to the realization; even if by some miracle he found it, there probably wouldn´t be a shred of signal in this hole.
"You´re kiddi-" Sam paused when he realized what he was about to say. "You can´t be serious," he corrected himself.
"Stop working with your pie-hole and start working with your hands, Sammy." Dean slmost hated himself for how he was talking to hiw brother right now, but he couldn´t help it. Grief was melting into rage, like many times before; and like many times before, this rage, not unlike a discharge of energy during a storm, always struck the nearest target.
And Sam knew that very well.
That´s why he only shrugged his head disapprovingly but bent down to help Dean carry away Castiel´s empty vessel to the small house´s basement. To a large meat freezer.
"You know that if he comes back, he´ll be able to fix the body no matter what state it´s in, right?" he asked carefully only after they were done. "Because, you know, it seems to me you´re kind of... wasting away."
Dean opened and closed his mouth. He nodded his head, turned away and walked off.
He didn´t want to yell at Sam.
He didn´t want to defend himself.
After all, which sane person keeps a dead angel vessel in their freezer?
Before he left the house, he punched the wooden door frame. His knuckles turned red.
The same sentence was haunting his head for three days straight.
The last words Cas heard from him.
"Angel-killing bullets? Awesome!"
"...I´m such an idiot," he whispered. His own voice, resembling light rustling of wind in dried leaves, returned him into the present. Into absolute darkness and absolute pain.
A desolate star was flickering somewhere above his head. The rest was covered by clouds.
From stifling day to chilly night.
He wasn´t shaking. He lied motionless and cold like the rocks surrounding him. His heartbeat was lazy, weak. Yet there was still blood humming in his ears, there were white spots dancing in his vision.
The feeling as if his entire upper body went to sleep and suddenly he got it moving again.
Pins and needles.
He blinked. A disgusting mixture of sweat, blood and tears was stinging in his eyes, but he couldn´t bring himself to lift his hand and wipe them off.
Maybe... maybe I´ll go where mom is...
The one whom he pulled out of the confines of her own mind, the one whom he once lost and then miraculously got her back, the one who was gone once again. Most likely dead. Definitely trapped in another dimension together with a royally pissed Lucifer.
Or where Bobby is. And Charlie.
Where they all are...
Still, it would probably be back to Hell rather than up to the attic. And screw it, by now he´d take bloody Crowley if he strutted in like a big damn hero at the eleventh hour. Or that crackpot of his witch mother.
But most of all...
Where do dead angels go?
"Cas... you winged dick... where do dead angels go?"
He didn´t even realize he was crying.
"I think I´m getting to him."
"Hm," Dean growled. He didn´t even try to hide his disgusted grimace. Sam was talking about that thing – he categorically refused to call it by a human name – as if it was a problem child. And Sam rejected interrogation methods that could actually lead them somewhere.
We´ll try it peacefully.
He could effortlessly explode us with a flick of his finger. Except it looks like he doesn´t want to...
He´s... I know it sounds weird, considering who I´m talking about, but to me, he only appears to be confused. And malevolent, sure, but mostly just confused...
...blah...blah...blah...
"I´m going out," Dean stated. He payed no attention to Sam´s questioning stare, stood up and begun packing his bag. Holy water, weapons... he was done in two minutes.
Sam endured up until the moment where his brother was about to get out of the door.
"Where, Dean?"
"To clear my head," he retorted. "Since I´m the nutjob now." He didn´t intend on talking about the mysterious hermit communicating with God, about whom he found on some esoteric website. To him, it felt more wacky than storing human bodies in a freezer.
A body, one body.
And I´m not storing him. It´s only waiting there for when Cas comes back, dammit.
Yeah, great, he´ll come back to a freezer, Dean, what a brilliant, really.
He almost groaned aloud. He himself felt like he was losing his marbles. Okay, so this will be his last attempt and then... then he´ll calm down, definitely. No matter how it turns out.
"I didn´t say you were... just... Jesus, I know... you think I´m not losing it because of this? You´re not the only one who lost their close ones, Dean," Sam paused, then added so very miserably: "And now I feel like I´m losing you too."
"Yeah, sorry," Dean nodded, and he meant it. "I´ll get back on track, I just need to do this one last thing, okay?"
"Sure, go, if it can help you. Just... stay on signal, please."
Instead of answering, he only waved his hand with his phone in it.
And he set out to the Impala.
"...on signal. Heh."
His phone was probably smashed into a pitiful heap of scrap, just like Dean´s body.
"Sorry, Sammy," he whispered into the darkness. "You´ll have to carry on by yourself."
He felt as if someone was inscribing each word into his chest with a white-hot fire poker. He rather stopped talking. It wasn´t like there was anyone who´d listen to the last words of a dying man, maybe safe for some insects or rats.
He closed his eyes. Even staring into the dark was too strenuous.
He flinched, almost wailed out.
A rasping inhale.
He dropped off again, hard to tell for how long. This time without memories. Just with illusions.
Bright light. Shadow pinions kissing the air.
Cas.
Castiel, you damn angel, come back. We need you.
I need you...
Please...
He listened to the silence and the weakening beats of his weary heart.
Or at least be somewhere where I´ll go as well. Hey, do you remember how much fun we had in Purgatory? Come on, man...
Barely audible swish. A whiff of cool air.
Wait, can an angel leave a ghost behind?
Ah, I´m hallucinating already, awesome...
Pounding of majestic wings.
"Cas?" Dean rasped out with the last of his strength.
Nothing.
The world is so empty without you... And it makes me mewl like a little bitch. But it doesn´t matter, I´ll mewl if it can help, if you can hear it, wherever you are, I will mewl while there is at least a single spark of life inside me.
Can you hear me?
Wait, light?
Is this finally it? It´s my who-knows-which time, and for the first time I´m enjoying it...
Open your eyes, come on.
You can do it.
You have to. Everything continues to hurt, to say you feel unwell would be the greatest fucking understatement of all time, therefore you´re not dead, open your damn eyes...
"Dean? Dean!"
That voice... I can´t knock off now... not now... please...
…
He opened his eyes to the sight of a star filled sky. It was growing pale towards east, the west, which Dean faced, remained the color of deep blue velvet.
Pain, fear, suffering accompanying each inhale and exhale; all of it gone.
He lifted himself up on his elbows, just for a moment, then he fell back down into the parched grass with a gasp. He felt as if he just undergo a very thorough Thai massage – relaxed and perfectly healthy, but weak like liquor in a cheap joint.
Is this Heaven?
This thought flashed through his head and he dismissed it at the same moment. The scent of pines convinced him that he´s still on good old Haystack. He had to grimace when he realized how disappointed he felt after those few seconds...
What kind of hunter reacts to ´I´m in Heaven´ with ´oh well, what can I do´?
Then he grew solemn.
He´s alive.
He´s perfectly alright, safe for the droopy weariness.
Tentatively, he tried to move his legs, even though he already knew they function just fine.
Back in time...
In one of the last moments, he heard the characteristic pounding of angel wings. And then...
Light, he saw silver light, bright, burning, terrifying and beautiful.
And finally the voice.
His voice.
Without regard for his languor, he got up on his feet. In the combination with his rescue and healing, this could mean only one thing: he wasn´t hallucinating, the flutter of wings, the light and the familiar voice...
"Cas!"
At last he saw him in the pale half-light of the approaching dawn; the angel was placidly sitting just a few steps away from him and apparently waited for Dean to regain his bearings. Who knows for how long.
"Hello, Dean."
"Cas, you..." he wanted to say something like damn madman, but the words got stuck in his throat. Instead he staggeringly stepped forward and Castiel stood up with his usual slight smile so they could hug each other.
"Is it really you, you son of a bitch? I´m dreaming, aren´t I? Please, let his not be a dream," Dean was aware that he couldn´t stop rambling stupidly, but he didn´t mind at the moment. Maybe it was also partly caused by the lingering effects of whatever the angel used to patch him up, but he was feeling profound euphoria.
"How did you manage to get out of the freezer? Eh, forget that, screw the damn freezer. How did you manage to get back? And where were you?" They pulled away a little and Dean momentarily lurched. He chuckled, it felt funny to him. "Come on, where were... where do angels go after they die?" Tears welled up in his eyes with the last word. Taken off guard, he wiped them off with the back of his hand.
"Dean," Castiel finally spoke. "You should sit down. You still aren´t exactly... stabilized."
"Yeah, you don´t say," he blinked, swayed again, as if drunk, and then he obeyed. Castiel sat down next to him, still so serene, as if his miraculous resurrection and saving Dean´s life was something completely mundane.
But considering what we´ve been through, Dean though, it really isn´t all that shocking.
He was slowly calming down. Giddiness was slowly turning into inherent happiness, although it was happiness so overwhelming it was almost ripping his heart apart.
"Do you have all of your... angel stuff back?" he asked one of the dumber questions, covering it by another before Castiel could reply: "Well, of course, but how? Didn´t they... um, aren´t you back, let´s say, in factory settings, right?"
"Yes, Dean," the angel spoke patiently, "I have all of my angel stuff back. As for how, that´s more complicated, but I can assure you that I´m not back in any setting from any factory." He frowned a little. "At least not that I would know of."
"Alright," Dean nodded. "So, how?"
Castiel briefly looked into his eyes, then glanced at the fading stars and then back at his companion again. "It was thanks to my love for you," he said at last. "And thanks to your love for me."
If Castiel wanted to dodge the next question with this response, which would be ´and where the hell were you even´, then he succeeded absolutely. Dean not only froze, he perhaps even stopped breathing. At last his eyebrows shot up and he stammered: "Y-you mean it figuratively, right. Something like in My Little Pony, the Power of Love... heh... yeah, that´s what it is."
"You´re blushing," the angel observed helpfully.
"Bullshit."
Both of them fell silent for a while. Castiel looked perfectly at peace with that; calm face, still the same subtle smile. And he watched the last shimmers of the stars disappearing from the sky, being replaced by an almost schmaltzy beautiful daybreak.
"You mean love as in window-shopping at the mall together, doing each other´s nails and buying matching handbags?" Dean begun stiffly, his attempt at exaggeration not flowing at all smoothly. "And anyway... physically... eh, you know... I have no idea what to say to you," he concluded at last.
"Why do you think love is of purely physical concern?" the angel asked, his tone indicating that he is genuinely interested in hearing the answer.
"Well... I´m not... dammit, Cas, not for nothing, but I´m not into guys."
A short pause, the angel redirected his gaze from the sky to Dean and then to the surrounding nature.
"If it´s of any consolation, I am not into guys either, whatever it means," he said slowly. "But Dean, do you really believe that I´m looking on your... on your bodily shell? Or that I am defined by this vessel?
"No, I know that. Dammit, I´m not an idiot. Most of the time." He sighed and begun to unwittingly dig in the soil with the tip of his shoe, pry out little stones and send them skidding downhill. "So you mean something like merging of two souls?"
"You would be reconciled with that?" the angel checked.
"Yeah... yeah I would."
"Why? I was very close to accepting a young girl as my vessel. Then would what I´m telling you now sound acceptable to you, even without limiting it to souls?"
"Cas," Dean breathed out and it sounded almost pleadingly. "Why the hell are we even having this conversation?"
"You asked," Castiel shrugged his shoulders. Then he smiled apologetically. "I´m sorry. You don´t see our true selves, which speak for themselves."
"And how does your true self look like, hm? No, wait, it´s clear to me, right now my brain wouldn´t be able to comprehend it and my melon would explode."
"You summarized it quite accurately," the angel nodded. "I just feel you are angry and confused and therefore you defend yourself with this... humor."
"How much you ask for a session, Freud?" Dean growled but then paused. He wished so much for Cas to return, hell, he almost died, alone in a dark hole, and after barely five minutes he´s blowing up on him as if he wanted to chase him off.
And why?
Because what the angel is saying is in itself the truth and Dean refuses to admit it in so as he wouldn´t lose his macho face?
"Dammit, Cas, I´m sorry," he muttered. "Okay, let´s say that my soul... loves your soul. And the other way around. Okay. I can live with that."
"It is so," Castiel agreed. Suddenly he looked content as a cat who was just thrown a mackerel. "And thanks to your soul, which in it´s hour of death most desired mine, I could come back. It´s a calling that needs to be heard and no force in the universe can prevent it."
"Wow, awesome," Dean finally smiled as well. "So it would be enough for me to almost pop my clogs while thinking of you. Dammit, if I knew this, I´d plan out the dying much sooner and..." he looked back to where he guessed was the shaft turned deadly trap, "...in some more comfy place."
"This isn´t funny, Dean, you almost died for real."
"Maybe in Vegas. With blackjack, whisky and a lot of strippers."
"Dean, just a bit longer and it would be too late..."
"...would it work if I thought about you while covered in a group of half-naked..."
"...then nothing would be able to save you or me."
Dean fell silently when he heard the urgency in Castiel´s voice. He nodded, shortly pressed his lips together and turned back to hug the angel again. Time to stop throwing jokes around as a defense against his true feelings.
Because yeah, that´s what I´m really afraid of. Feeling something. And that it´s going to hurt.
Worse than a mangled body at the bottom of a mining shaft.
"Cas, thank you," he whispered. "Thank you for coming back."
"No, I thank you for calling me back. And you know, both is matter-of-course."
They pulled apart once more. Now both of them grew solemn. Understanding without words. Behind their backs the sun poked out its first rays above the horizon and fixed them at the fading blush of dawn; the birds begun their trills a while ago.
"We should go," Dean was the first to break the silence. "Sam stayed alone... with you-know-who."
Cas nodded somberly. "I´ll go on ahead," his voice sounded as if the angel´s mind was already elsewhere. "I believe you would rather leave with the Impala."
"You bet. But maybe you could get us to the parking lot."
"Of course."
"And... Cas?"
"Yes?"
"Where do dead angels go?"
Castiel pointed to the morning sky and smiled a little mysteriously. When he spotted Dean´s expression, he became serious. "Why do you wish to know so much, Dean?"
"Ah," Dean shrugged. "Just curious."
"That´s not entirely true." Not a question, just a statement, the angel was sure. Dean could feel his cheeks turning pink again.
Damn blood...
"Okay, if you want the truth," he spilled before he could stop himself, "I want to know so that... just, if we could meet there in the end." He looked at Cas. "Now you know, happy? Now it´s your turn with the truth."
"Oh, Dean," the angel sounded almost moved. "I told you that no force in the universe can hold back this calling. And no force in the universe can shred this bond."
The Winchester just shook his head in silence.
"Only you can," Castiel added, "or me. But... that won´t happen."
"No," Dean said silently. "That won´t happen-"
And then the black wings swirled the air.
The top of Mount Haystack, on which lived no hermit with a hotline to God, or any other hermit whatsoever, became lonely once again.
And one human soul and once angel being were not to know loneliness forevermore.